Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Then I heard Joey’s voice in my head. Brass balls. Belong. Own it.
Right. Okay.
I straightened and returned her appraisal with a superior-ish look of my own, then turned to Miranda. “These events are deadly dull. I, too, prefer something a bit more…” Shit, what was a fancy word for secondhand thrift store? What word had Bash used earlier? “Avant-garde,” I said smoothly, gesturing to my ensemble. “It’s… one of my billionaire quirks. Why waste money on couture when you can put on any ole thing and pass it off as the next big thing?”
Miranda blinked. She took a deliberate bite of her prosciutto morsel—dear god, that looks tasty—and grinned. “I love that.” She leaned toward me. “And I fucking hate this dress.”
“Mir-an-da!” Constance pursed her lips and turned her ire on me. “You’re much younger than I thought you’d be, Mr. Chase.”
“Oh. Well. The wonders of healthy living, you know.” I eyed the array of artery-clogging meats and cheeses over her shoulder with glee.
She narrowed her eyes. “And I hadn’t heard that you were such a style connoisseur.”
“No? Well. Sterling Chase is a bit of a Renaissance man. If you’ll pardon me, please, madam—”
“Sterling!” a way-more-familiar-than-it-should-be voice called.
Shoot. My stomach trembled with excitement, and my dick perked up as Bash appeared at my side. “I got you a drink. Sterling Chase’s favorite. Beluga on the rocks.”
Oh. Great. We were still doing the third-person-talking thing.
Bash grinned at me, eyes dancing, which made it hard to breathe or swallow, let alone talk. Instead, I looked down at the glass of clear liquid he handed me.
“Right,” I managed. “Of course. Many assistants would think Sterling Chase prefers an ice-cold beer, but you know me so well. Sterling Chase appreciates that.” I took a sip without thinking, hoping it would calm my nerves, but when the straight vodka hit the back of my throat with a stark burn, I choked.
Bash looked at me in concern.
“Good,” I gasped out. “Hngh. So tasty.”
Bash’s eyes went unfocused for a second, which helped neither the breathing situation nor the situation in my pants.
“Constance, you’re looking just as ravishing as you were earlier this evening! I see you’ve met Sterling Chase? Have you been regaling him with tales of your magnificent topiaries?” Bash asked.
“Bash, dear, you and Mr. Chase are… acquainted?” Constance said, more of an accusation than a question.
“Indeed,” Bash said easily. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known Sterling Chase for as long as he’s lived.”
“Hmph. Well then, you’re in luck. Mr. Chase was just about to enlighten us with his thoughts on style.” Constance raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting me to embarrass myself.
I felt my face go hot and fought the need to squirm. “Uh. Well. I think…” I cleared my throat. “That is to say…”
“You don’t need to do this,” Bash said, bending his head so he was nearly speaking in my ear. His voice was low and steady. Almost soothing… Or at least it would have been if his proximity hadn’t made my pulse stutter out T-A-K-E-M-E-N-O-W in Morse code. “Sterling Chase doesn’t owe anyone his precious opinions, does he?”
My eyes met his, and for a moment, in this sea of fakeness and impostors, it felt like I’d found a friend. An ally. Someone who stood on my side of a huge divide between the people who had and the people who needed.
The handsomest man in the room—this man who was all mocking eyebrows, and intelligent glances, and plush, kissable lips—was reminding me that I could stand up to someone rich and entitled. And it felt so damn good, so empowering, I found myself rooted to the spot when I should have fled and talking when I should have kept my mouth shut.
“I, uh… I think style is about… honesty?” I blurted, the statement coming out more like a question. I took a deep breath. Brass balls, brass balls, brass balls. “Rather than replicating what you see on the runway or on social media and doing what you think is expected of you, take the time to figure out what you actually like. What makes you happy. What makes you feel most comfortable and… you.”
“So we should all just wear pajamas in the ballroom, then?” Constance tittered. “How amusing.”
“N-no,” I protested. Her quick dismissal fired something in my blood. “That’s actually the opposite of what I’m saying. I’m saying don’t be lazy. Don’t take the path of least resistance. Don’t make excuses about not having the time, or the money, or the skills to make your clothes, or your home, or your dreams what you want them to be. Put in some effort. Acquire the skills. Make it a priority. Take a risk. Question things and know why you’re doing what you’re doing. It’s hard and uncomfortable a lot of the time. Sometimes you’ll misstep. Sometimes you’ll look foolish. Sometimes you’ll even feel foolish. But you only get one life, and if fear holds you back from living it the way you want, you’re wasting it, as my sister used to say. And, uh…”